Lion, Interrupted
by Got Tea
Summary: Boyd is a little too late in coming to a realisation...


**This fic has been languishing on my hard drive for well over a year now, and it's thanks to Joodiff that it is finally finished and posted here. It is rated a T, though sensitive readers should be aware that it contains adult content - if this is likely to cause offence or discomfort, please do not read. This story is set in the same universe as my Communication Series, though in terms of timeline occurs some months after the end of that series, which is as yet unfinished.**

* * *

 **Lion, Interrupted**

 **…**

 **The Lion**

Trudging wearily down the stairs and around the corner into his kitchen Boyd hears, far too late, the sound of feminine laughter echoing warmly in the early morning air. A flash of memory returns, and with it the uncomfortable realisation that he may have just walked straight into the proverbial lion's – though perhaps in this case lioness's might be more appropriate – den, dressed in nothing more than an old, worn, and distinctly threadbare dressing gown, and a pair of slippers that have very definitely seen better days.

The laughter stops immediately and three pairs of eyes are suddenly staring right at him, their owners momentarily too stunned by his abrupt appearance to say anything. Clustered as they are around his kitchen table, drinking tea and eating toast he can see quite clearly the amused expressions and the faint twitching of lips taking hold; all three of them suddenly struggling to suppress their mirth at his slightly shell-shocked expression and uncharacteristically unkempt appearance. He does the only thing he can think of in such unexpected circumstances, offering the collective group of them a single scowl, one which he hopes is fearsome and of the leave-me-alone variety, but, sadly for him, it only has the unfortunate effect of making their grins increase.

It's not his fault mornings are not his favourite time of day. Nor is it his fault that when he awoke to a suspiciously empty other half of the bed, he immediately missed his warm and cuddly companion, and, upon deciding to search for her and deal, quickly and effectively, by whatever means necessary, with whatever it was that could possibly have enticed her to get up at such a preposterously early hour, he completely forgot the events of the previous evening. Well, not _all_ of the events. Some things from last night are very pleasantly crystal clear in his mind, but others, rather unfortunately, he ruefully reflects now, seem to have slipped it entirely.

And so here he is, scantily clad, still slightly hazy with the lingering remnants of slumber, and very dishevelled in a just-woken-up-and-rolled-straight-out-of-bed sort of way.

And there _they_ are. Three doctors, already showered and impeccably dressed, and looking far more wide awake than anyone should have a right to at this hour. They are clustered around his kitchen table, clearly enjoying their breakfast, each other's company and now a good deal of amusement at his expense. He's definitely beginning to feel rather more like the poor, unfortunate prey than the roaring, regal lion who's the uncontested head of his own pride and defiant king of the jungle.

It's just not fair.

Doctor Foley, Doctor Lockhart and Doctor Hobson.

Grace, Eve and Laura.

Three women whom he knows all too well are outrageously capable of stirring up far too much more mischief than is good for anyone. And that's individually. Put them together and… well, it's no wonder he's starting to wish he hadn't even woken up, let alone crawled out of bed.

"Morning, Boyd," Eve says at last, a wicked grin firmly lodged into her lips as she very blatantly takes in his appearance. He scowls ever deeper in return. It has no effect on Eve whatsoever. It never does. Balls of steel that one. Hmm… maybe not. Ovaries of steel? Whatever! The principle still applies.

Laura smiles slightly at him and looks down, picking up her mug to take a sip and Boyd feels a faint amount of relief that she, at least, isn't going to make him feel even more uncomfortable than necessary. He likes Laura, despite not knowing her nearly as well as the other two, who are both still staring openly at him. Calm, quietly intelligent, and full of sharp humour, Laura is relaxed and very comfortable company. A wide range of interests, no pretences, and a fierce streak when provoked; he has spent several highly engaging evenings in her company now.

She's a long-time friend of Eve's, and despite being a couple of years older, the pair of them met at university and have remained close. Over the last few years she has, on several occasions, turned up in the lab late on a Friday evening before the pair of them disappeared off to study God knows what at the Body Farm over the weekend. Pathologists! How two such beautiful and fiercely intelligent women ended up – quite literally – elbow deep in corpses, he has no idea. Or how they seem to manage to enjoy it quite so much.

And Eve... Well, he still finds her slightly difficult to quantify, even after all this time. Her expertise he doesn't doubt, not for a second – in fact he finds her intelligence slightly daunting, her dedication at times a little overwhelming. Personally though, she is still something of a conundrum to him. She's difficult to read, and more often than not reacts in a manner he would never have been able to predict. But he likes her very much, has grown a lot closer to her over the last year, and is immeasurably grateful for everything she has done for Grace during the agonising battle they have now finally and very definitely left behind them.

That just leaves Grace, the calm, grounding force at the centre of his universe. Grace, who so easily, quietly and absolutely entirely stole his heart. Grace, whom he loves without reserve, and who was so suspiciously missing from the bed when he awoke. She took an immediate shine to Eve when the enigmatic pathologist took up residence in the CCU lab, and the two are very, very close now. Wickedly so, at times. The pair of them are easily more than capable of causing the kind of mayhem that gives him headaches for days, without the addition of Laura, whom Grace has also become very good friends with.

They are still smirking at him. Well, two of them are. Laura is smiling faintly and trying, though failing miserably, to keep her focus elsewhere. Her eyes keep sidling sideways though, whereupon her grin gets bigger and she quickly looks away again. Eve isn't at all worried about trying to hide her amusement. She's openly watching and grinning at him, lips pursed in amusement. And Grace. Well, her smirk is of an entirely different type than the other two.

There's something distinctly predatory in her stare, something that sends a delicious shiver down his spine. He watches as she takes a bite of toast, chews, swallows and then slowly licks the crumbs from her lips. All while steadily holding his gaze. His eyes narrow even as his heart rate edges up a notch, and he glares balefully at her. Her answer is merely an engaging, and thoroughly infuriating, slow and very deliberate smirk.

And it's then, right at that moment, that a very unwelcome thought suddenly chooses to drift into his mind and he has to fight with every scrap of self-control he has against the suddenly screaming impulse to glance down and check that everything is… appropriately covered. He's not a bashful man, not in the least, but the thought of these three and the sheer, unending amusement they would get from an accidental eyeful of… well, it doesn't bear thinking about. He manages to keep his expression level and his eyes resolutely fixed on Grace, but he can't prevent the slight, uncomfortable redistribution of weight from one foot to the other. It's a movement that on him can't quite be defined as a squirm, but, on any other man, it most definitely would be. And – naturally – it doesn't go unnoticed either.

A muffled sound makes him tear his attention away from Grace and glance at the other two. Laura has a hand pressed to her lips, effectively, for the moment, stifling her giggles. Eve, perhaps because she knows him better, has no such qualms and the moment his eyes fall on her, she gives in to full blown laughter – rich and deep as it resonates wonderfully in the large room; the sound is further magnified as Grace and Laura fall victim to her evidently infectious amusement and join in. Boyd's eyebrows draw together ominously and with a sweeping scowl this time directed at each and every one of them in turn, he turns around with as much dignity as he can muster, and, now pointedly ignoring them, proceeds to boil the kettle and make himself a cup of coffee.

This is his house, it's Saturday morning – shockingly early on Saturday morning, at that – and there are three women in his kitchen who all seem to think it's perfectly acceptable to be laughing loudly and uproariously at him. It's ridiculous. Outrageous. Completely and utterly unreasonable, by any stretch of the imagination.

The coffee made, he risks turning back around to look at them. The laughter has stopped, but it has been replaced with silence, which he finds infinitely more disconcerting. He is well aware that these particular women are more than capable of holding an entire conversation without actually saying a single word, and given that he's just had his back to them for the last however long it's taken him to noisily and irritably produce his favoured morning drink…

The three of them are like a little coven, he thinks, watching them steadily watching him, for Laura has succumbed, it seems, to temptation and is now peering slyly at him again, albeit out of the corner of her eye. There is a big, week-long pathology conference in London every year, for which the third member of the group religiously turns up, usually staying with Eve. And then there are the occasional smaller meetings and Body Farm weekends; all of which invariably end up with the three of them clustered together somewhere, heads together and plotting the kind of anarchy he really doesn't want to know about but generally ends up hearing of or getting tangled up in anyway.

And that's how he ended up in this situation, he reflects, as he continues to glower over at them and they continue to smirk back at him. Laura turned up in the depths of the CCU Bunker sometime late yesterday afternoon – he distinctly remembers the trail of unexplained laughter that followed as Grace escorted her through to the lab while he sat signing his way through the reports stacked on his desk and gloomily wondering what mayhem the trio might be about to bring down on him this time. It wasn't until much later in the evening that Grace's mobile rang and his part in this… predicament… of his unfolded.

A gas leak at Eve's apartment building had left the two pathologists desperate for a place to stay for the night, a place he ended up willingly – if perhaps misguidedly – offering. It's pure coincidence that he and Grace have temporarily relocated to his house while the workmen she has – finally, and rather grudgingly – conceded to replace the ancient boiler and heating system in her own home, and tackle a few other odd jobs she's been putting off for years, thus putting him in a position to offer temporary accommodation.

He doesn't begrudge the two of them staying – he has plenty of available space, after all, and he thoroughly enjoyed their company last night, even if it did come hot on the heels of a few minutes mad scramble in which he and Grace attempted to make themselves and the living room presentable again. But waking up, alone, in a cold bed, on a Saturday morning? Especially when he can't seem to recall exactly where it is they are all about to vanish off to? Not ideal.

None of that matters at this particular moment though, because they are all still sitting right there at his kitchen table, and while Grace is still smirking at him, Eve and Laura have now moved on to quick, whispered comments in each other's ears that he – thankfully – hasn't a hope of hearing, but strongly suspects he wouldn't want to know about even if he could.

He finds himself rather desperately contemplating a way of getting out of his current predicament with what remains of his dignity still intact, and without appearing to slink sulkily out of the room, leaving them with what would no doubt be weeks, if not months, of additional amusement. A task that's beginning to feel like a remarkably hopeless exercise, particularly when Eve chooses that exact moment to _accidentally_ catch his eye and, instead of just politely looking away, then proceeds to lean casually back in her chair, patently cataloguing all the holes and imperfections in his outerwear as she silently challenges him to do just that.

His eyes flicker quickly to Grace, wondering if she will help get him out of this mess but he finds no help from her either – her attention has evidently wandered far away from his face, making eye-contact, and the subsequent sort of silent communication that they are also extremely adept at, impossible. She does seem to be lost in a daydream of the particularly fascinating kind though, given the look he can see in her eyes. A look that causes his already considerable irritation to be further compounded because on any other day when it's just the two of them…

He yanks himself out of that train of thought as quickly as he can, absolutely intent on not only not giving the trio any further cause for amusement if at all possible, but also maximising any sort of damage control over the situation that he can wrangle. There's nothing to help him though, he's just going to have to walk out and leave them to it. It's not an appealing prospect, and the concept of defeat is never a pleasant one, particularly given that he's firmly on his own turf here, but he really doesn't see any other way out of this… mess.

He's just about to give in when his potential saviour suddenly chooses that precise moment to wander sleepily into the room, luxuriously stretching her limbs and spine as she moves. Pausing very deliberately just over the threshold, Freyja glares inhospitably at Eve, tail immediately starting to twitch irritably, just as her ears slide back slightly and the barest hint of her brilliant white and very sharp front teeth are put firmly on display. Skirting the table, and Eve, who is sitting closest to her, Freyja stalks defiantly toward Boyd, pointedly ignoring the pathologist who has, admittedly, tried her level best to make amends with the stubborn feline.

Freyja pauses at Boyd's feet and stands up on her back legs, long lithe body stretching up until she can plant her front paws on his thigh. Now it's his turn to smirk as he bends down and effortlessly scoops her up, tucking her firmly under his arm as she rubs her head against his hand and purrs deeply, even as she keeps a steady watch on Eve, that unmistakably feline disdain still visible in her gaze. Laura giggles, Eve sighs and runs a hand through her long hair, and Freyja growls at the movement, the sound a deep rumble of displeasure in the back of her throat. Grinning to himself, and silently thanking his pet for her continuing dislike of the pathologist who once processed her as a piece of evidence, Boyd sweeps his eyes over the three of them one last time before sauntering back out of the room, cat in one hand and coffee in the other. He makes it as far as the foot of the stairs before the explosion of laughter echoes after him.

 **…**

 **The Lioness**

When she makes her way back upstairs to their bedroom ten or so minutes later, having left the other two to finish their breakfast alone with only some vague and probably entirely specious parting excuse about needing to finish getting ready, Grace fully expects to find him sulky and irritable over the highly unamusing – from his point of view, at least – early morning invasion of his kitchen. And, given the way he's lying on the bed, semi-reclined against the pillows and frowning slightly as he stares meditatively into the coffee mug balanced against his chest while his free hand strokes slowly and rhythmically along the length of Freyja's body, she thinks she's probably not far off the mark.

Knowing that he hates to be laughed at, and that he isn't particularly fond of his peace and quiet being disturbed either, she offers only a quiet, "Hey," as she closes the door behind her, hoping to gauge his mood fully before saying anything else. When he looks up at her and smiles softly she's surprised, but still left wondering what's going on behind those dark, thoughtful eyes as he takes a long sip of coffee before placing his mug onto the bedside table and holding out his hand to her in a silent question. Settling beside him on the bed, she takes the offered hand, gazing down at the fingers that lace themselves securely between her own and quietly studying the contrast between the two of them.

"Okay?" he asks, making her glance up to find curious eyes watching her steadily.

She nods, gives him a slightly hesitant smile. "I'm sorry about all that," she replies. "It was just a bit… unexpected… I thought you were still asleep and, well… Eve's never seen you looking quite so dishevelled, so…"

Real amusement flares in his eyes and he laughs, squeezing her hand. "It's fine, Grace – God knows it must have been a bloody shock for them. It was for me, too; I was still half asleep and I'd forgotten they were here. I'm just grateful I actually put the damn dressing gown on, even if it has seen better days."

Reflecting on the fact that his usual early morning weekend attire generally consists of only a mere pair of boxers or trunks, or – if it's cold enough to warrant them – pyjama bottoms, she finds herself beginning to smirk again in highly inappropriate amusement. "Oh, I don't know," she says, eyes gleaming wickedly, "Laura and Eve are both doctors – human bodies are all just the same to them…" she pauses momentarily at his disbelieving snort, and then adds, "but I would have definitely enjoyed the view."

"Is that so," he asks, still showing absolutely no sign, as he lounges comfortably back against the pillows, of the irritable embarrassment she was expecting. His grin is relaxed and open as he rests one hand behind his head, the movement tugging the top of said dressing gown askew and revealing a hint of the smooth, enticing skin beneath it. The temptation to continue the game, their game _,_ is incredibly strong but she's absolutely aware that it could – would – lead them both somewhere she really doesn't have the time for right now. Regrettably she tears her gaze away, instead looking down at the cat lounging beside them.

"What are you doing on the bed, hmm?" she asks Freyja, tone soft even as she attempts a stern sort of disapproval in an effort to disguise the effect he's having on her. The cat merely rolls onto her back, paws waving in the air as she reaches up to bat playfully at Grace's sleeve. Boyd chuckles and lowers his hand to tickle the short, fuzzy fur under her chin. Grace raises an eyebrow at him and shakes her head, simultaneously endearingly amused, and exasperated. "You spoil her, you know," she informs him bluntly.

He merely shrugs, "So? She had a rough start in life – she deserves to be spoiled, don't you little one?" Freyja yawns and stretches, before curling onto her side and resting her head against his thigh, regarding Grace with the kind of sleepy, innocent but-you-love-me-anyway expression that has thus far managed to get her out of almost any kind of trouble she has cared to get herself into. It works too, and Grace simply reaches down and runs affectionate fingers over luxurious silvery fur, eliciting a deeply contented purr.

She wonders if the cat has anything to do with Boyd's uncharacteristic calm and eventually concludes that it's entirely possible, and in fact quite probable; Freyja has that effect on both of them. They each seem to have experienced a marked reduction in their respective stress levels since the pretty little feline joined their household, planting her fuzzy paw print right on their hearts. Less stress, less shouting, less arguing in general, she thinks, pondering the relatively steady domestic tranquillity they seem to have achieved, even if their working life is still just as hectic and demanding.

"You're wearing that cardigan," he announces suddenly, pulling her roughly out of her thoughts and, after a quick glance down at her attire, she realises he is right. The fine, soft wool was an indulgence she couldn't resist when she saw it months ago now whilst out on an impromptu shopping trip with an old friend, the colour an added bonus and something to cheer her up after the rigors of treatment. It's unusual, she has to admit; the dye an eye-catching shade caught somewhere between the iridescence of a peacock and the rich depths of a dark, royal blue. He claims it does magical things to her eyes, but she suspects his obsession with it is more to do with the way it fits so very well, clinging softly against and accentuating every curve she can lay claim to.

"Are you trying to drive me crazy?" he asks, gently tugging her close enough so he can run a single fingertip through her hair, idly brushing strands aside, tucking it behind her ear. The pad of his thumb traces softly down across her cheek, coming to rest briefly against the base of her jaw before moving again, following an exquisitely slow journey along the edge of her lips, only the barest hint of pressure in his touch.

"No," she answers honestly, for when she dressed in semi-darkness earlier her thoughts were on the morning's presentation and the speech that is waiting for her, not any kind of seduction or attempt to provoke some kind of highly enjoyable misbehaviour.

He sits up, bringing their bodies into much closer contact and even though there are several layers still between them she can feel the intoxicating warmth radiating from him, can smell the first hint of the dizzying combination of scents that she associates with him. Tilting his head slightly he kisses her; it's just a brief and gentle brush of his lips against her own, but it is heavily laced with the teasing suggestion of something else, something more. "Well, you are," is the reply that is delivered against the shell of her ear as his tone drops much, much lower, his warm breath tickling her skin. A delicious shiver prickles along the length of her spine and she turns her head, gazing steadily at him, noting that wonderfully familiar gleam in his dark eyes as he stares just as intently back at her.

It's too easy to get lost in him, she knows. The speed with which it can happen still catches her by surprise sometimes, but she's long past the point of caring. This is her reward, their reward. This future together is what they both so stubbornly fought for and clung tightly to the promise of through months and months of utter hell, and so, without even thinking about it, Grace reaches for him, burying her fingers into his tousled hair as she kisses him back. She's every bit as gentle as he was moments before, but her intentions are different, her desire that to linger here with him for as long as possible. Reality fading away, she takes her time; slowly, deeply, thoroughly exploring his lips, and absolutely enjoying every single moment of it.

This, she realises, as his arms slide around her body, cradling her even closer against him, is what he's been thinking about. Their customary languidly peaceful Saturday morning routine; waking up without the aid of an alarm clock and spending the early hours of the morning lazily curled up together after the inevitable madness of the working week. It's something they've both grown accustomed to in the months since her return to the unit full-time, something which they both unfailingly look forward to.

As she feels his hands begin to wander though, her mind traitorously reminds her of the busy schedule she has waiting for her and regretfully she pulls away, immediately spotting the frustration that flares in his eyes. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, fingers gentle on his face, smoothing tenderly across his eyebrows, "But I really have to get ready to go." His response is to simply kiss her again, effectively ending the train of thought running through her mind about the final slide in her presentation and whether or not she should make a quick alteration to the text there.

Common sense and rationality evaporate almost instantaneously as he leans back into the pillows, taking her with him. She feels his palms drift down to sit warmly at her waist as he holds her snugly against his body, before one arm curves up and across her back, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder where his thumb teases the skin at the base of her neck, sliding maddeningly slowly under the hem of her cardigan. The kiss goes on and on, a heady combination of lust and desire quickly building and capturing each and every one of her senses, completely eclipsing anything other than him and her and the way they are together.

Any sense of laziness is gone now; his mouth is hot and demanding against hers, his lips and tongue heatedly exploring as the intensity continues to rise and she responds in kind, a greedy wash of need and want flooding thorough her. He rolls them both, and the way his weight presses her into the mattress is both welcome and exciting, allowing her the opportunity to slide her hands across the material of his dressing gown, her fingers roaming hungrily over the smooth, muscled planes and contours of his back and shoulders. His lips break away from hers and Grace moans softly, already missing the contact, even as, contrary as ever, his pace suddenly drops again and his mouth traces unhurriedly across the soft skin of her neck, his tongue trailing a slow, sensuous path down along the ridge of her collarbone. It's deliciously frustrating, and as one of her hands returns to the thick, dense softness of his hair she tugs gently, desperate to feel his kiss again, his lips against hers. He obliges, but not before she sees a flash of that wicked, enticing grin, and the kind of blazing, intensely passionate fire in his eyes that makes her want to do things to him that will leave him breathless and incoherent, shaking and swearing at her as he fights for control.

That thought leaves her in an instant though, as she feels his mouth cover hers once again and she finds herself utterly lost in the delightful sensations of his tongue reaching out to tangle hotly and hungrily with her own, of his palm sliding down across her body and capturing her breast, kneading softly. She arches against him, soliciting more of his touch, her fingers scrabbling to push away the irritating fabric covering him, impatient for the sensation of his bare skin under her palms and her efforts only seem to encourage him further. Moments later his hands have found their way not just through the buttons of her cardigan, but the blouse under it too, and despite the growing urgency between them his touch is slow and tender, exploring with the kind of unhurried, deliberate intensity that is at once both breathtakingly sensual, and incredibly maddening.

It seems to be his tactic of choice, repeatedly promising more and then pulling back, and if she was still capable of rational thought she'd wonder if his methods are some kind of deliberate retribution for the kitchen scene, but she isn't and she doesn't. She wants to grumble and complain, but she can't. Wants to curse at him and demand to know what he is doing, but she doesn't. Instead she remains caught up in the moment and everything that is passing between them, and this time she doesn't complain when he breaks out of their kiss. Not when his fingers are tracing the outline of delicate lace and teasing the sensitive flesh beneath it, nor when his lips follow their earlier path down her throat, pausing momentarily to nip lightly at the skin just above her collarbone, making her whimper in anticipation. And as his mouth descends further still, kissing, licking and sucking at her breast, making her breath hiss out in response the rising, surging tide of overwhelming desire and desperate need he is eliciting within her, complaint is the very farthest thing from her mind.

"Peter…" his name is the merest hint of a whisper on her lips as she tries and fails to catch hold of the vexing double knot that binds together the fabric still covering his body, the fabric that is preventing her from accessing the bare skin she so urgently wants to feel beneath her hands and pressed flush against her own body. She growls her displeasure as he moves, the knot infuriatingly slipping further away from her reach as his tongue trails a blistering path between her breasts that he immediately follows with a row of tiny, feathery kisses. Drawing in a ragged breath, she feels the button on her trousers surrender, followed by the slow descent of the zip. Her hands grasp his shoulders, nails digging into the heavy muscle she finds there as his mouth moves, capturing her nipple through the thin lace and sucking deeply, his tongue swirling around the hardened peak as his fingers find their own target much lower down, making her gasp and swear softly.

She wants – needs – to feel him, to touch him in return and as he moves to kiss her again, his lips pressing urgently against hers she makes a determined grab for that knot. Mind lost in the overwhelming mix of sensations rushing through her, she abandons thoughts of trying to untie it and simply tugs sharply until it finally yields and she can force the material aside, running her palms down across his back and revelling in the glorious heat of him, the ripple and flex of muscle that hints at the raw strength that she finds, like so many other things about him, absolutely, endlessly intriguing.

In a contest of pure, physical power she can never hope to win but there are alternatives, and when he pushes impatiently at her dishevelled clothing, briefly preoccupied with trying to gain better access she uses the moment to her own advantage, neatly reversing their positions and assuming the dominant one. He growls deep in his throat but wastes no time in taking full advantage of the new arrangement; her blouse and sweater are gone before she knows it, intent as she is with exploring as much of him as she can, as quickly as she can.

Gripped by the frantic need to touch him, to taste him, her mouth moves across the broad expanse of his chest, her tongue flicking across first one nipple and then the other as her hands roam lower and lower, teasing him incessantly as she get closer and closer to her target, never actually making the contact he so clearly wants. Her name slips out from between his lips, a desperate, shaky entreaty as his hand reaches for her hip to pull her closer and she grins, knowing she only has moments left before his impatience wins out and she finds herself beneath him again. Crawling back up his body she kisses him once; hard and hot, their tongues a darting, duelling flurry, before she pulls away again, sitting up and reaching for him, her eyes fixed on his as he groans and pushes greedily into her hand, blatantly soliciting more of her touch even as his own hands are moving again, clearly intent on both mapping curves and making her gasp and squirm, her breathing as ragged and quick and shallow as his.

Touch and feel, share together in the deliciously hedonistic mix of sensation and desire – the erotic feedback from simultaneously both giving and receiving pleasure is something they both enjoy, something they both covet, chase. His eyes burn with an impassioned tangle of want and need that is heavily laced with as much love as lust, and for a split second as she gazes down at him and he back up at her she wonders if he can see the same thing in her, if he can see how deeply and profoundly lost in him she truly is. That moment shatters though, as he shifts beneath her, impatiently grinding his hips against her and she grins, knowing exactly where this is heading.

He wants more, she wants more, and the sensation of him pressed against her, hot and hard and oh so ready refocuses her attention, instantly drives all thoughts from her mind but shedding those last few remaining items of clothing that are preventing her from getting exactly what she wants. His hands land on her hips again, slide down her thighs as they push away her trousers, and she revels in his touch even as he smirks, once again suddenly deliberately, purposefully slow, teasing. But she can tease too, and she leans in for another kiss, teeth nipping his lower lip, his jaw, the lobe of his ear as she whispers a provocative, husky, "I want you."

The response is both immediate, and exactly what she was hoping for. He moves like lightening, all fluid purpose and seasoned muscle, and before she has chance to draw a breath she's beneath him once again as he grins wickedly and hooks his fingers into the elastic of her knickers, all games and teasing aside now as he's absolutely intent on what he's doing, what he's chasing.

"Grace?" Eve's voice, business-like and immediately recognisable, cuts effortlessly through the blinding haze of passion, reminding Grace of exactly what it is she is supposed to be doing at this moment in time. It destroys her ardour, her enthusiasm in a flash, leaving behind only a wild, raging fury. Livid and breathless, she rolls away from him and onto her front, face buried in the pillows and hands clenching fiercely into the bedcovers, sudden, seething anger leaving her incapable of speech as a second call of "Grace?" is followed by a brisk tap on the door.

She feels Boyd take a long, wavering deep breath beside her, hears him call out in answer and wonders how on earth he's managing to keep his tone neutral, to control his equally blistering impatience. "She's in the bathroom, Eve. You want me to tell her something?"

"Just that we need to leave in ten minutes or traffic will be a nightmare."

Boyd rolls sideways, his arm snaking out to curl around her and tug her flush against his body even as he steadily voices his agreement to the unwelcome intruder on the other side of the door. "Okay, no problem."

There's a muffled "Thanks," followed by the sound of quickly retreating footsteps, and Grace glowers up at the wall beyond his shoulder, her initial anger beginning to fade, morphing instead into a deeply frustrated ache and a heavy sense of dissatisfaction. Slightly calmer, she eyes her companion suspiciously as he traces his fingertips up and down her arm, apparently unbothered by the ill-timed interruption, despite the substantial physical evidence of his lingering arousal trapped between them that would tend to dispute that claim.

"How can you be so composed?" she grumbles, not bothering to hide even an ounce of her feelings. He smiles and kisses her forehead softly, his arms around her a tender caress now, rather than a heated embrace.

"Because, having been brought back to my senses, I seem to have remembered that we aren't alone in the house." It takes a moment for his meaning to sink in, and then Grace grimaces and sighs dejectedly, sinking heavily against him as any remaining notion of covetous want and desire is completely extinguished.

"Bugger," she mutters rebelliously, sitting up abruptly and swinging her legs off the bed. Hands behind his head, he stays where he is, clearly enjoying the view of soft, full curves and the dark grey lace clinging to them that he was so recently about to remove as she hunts among the rumpled bedcovers for the rest of her clothes. "You could help me, you know," she informs him, still missing the blue cardigan.

"I could," he agrees indolently, eyes remaining engaged with their task, "or I could get up and take the traumatised cat downstairs and feed her – and me – breakfast. Or I could even stay here and enjoy watching you for a few more minutes."

Finally locating the tangled heap of wool, Grace rolls her eyes at him, shaking out the wrinkles and draping the cardigan over the bedpost. "You can come out now, Frey," she calls, threading her arms into the sleeves of her blouse, "it's perfectly safe." A whiskery face appears in the doorway to the en suite, bounding forward onto the bed when Boyd whistles cheerfully to her.

"It's you own fault you know," Boyd muses, observing the way Freyja is inquisitively watching Grace.

Fastening the last of the buttons and tucking the blouse into her trousers, she raises an eyebrow at him. "How's that?"

Boyd picks up his mug and takes an experimental sip of his now very tepid coffee. "Well, who the hell goes to a conference that lasts into the bloody weekend?"

Riled – just a little – Grace glares at him. "So? How is it my fault that I was asked to speak today? And furthermore, what's that got to do with a gas leak and friends that need a place to stay?"

He says nothing, just gets to his feet and begins to hunt for something a little less revealing to wear, and, irritable, still frustrated, and annoyed with herself because of it, Grace stalks away into the bathroom to finish getting ready.

 **…**

 **The Lion**

Comfortably – and modestly – dressed in jeans and a sweater, and feeling rather more like the king of jungle and lord of his own domain he is typically accustomed to being, Boyd is lounging at the bottom of the stairs as Grace descends and he immediately notes the re-touched makeup and the smoothed hair; the way her clothes are once again immaculate. The multiple sides to her intrigue him, occupy his attention time and time again, fill him with an intense and unending need to investigate, to observe, to do more to try and understand every aspect of who and what she is. That she still surprises him after so many years of acquaintance only draws him in further, makes him wonder and question and want to explore again and again and again.

There's nothing about her that doesn't fascinate him, that doesn't catch and hold his attention, and as she walks towards him, already in the role of guest speaker and projecting and showing the element of her career that is a lecturer and teacher, he only finds his interest climbing, his curiosity all the more engaged. There's something very efficient and professional about her and the way she gathers her coat and bag as she reaches the hallway, more so than usual, an it's a far cry from the passionate, fiery woman who was so recently sitting astride him, his very own lioness silently making all manner of deliciously hedonistic promises as she worked an arcane, erotic magic on his senses. It's a remarkable transformation, but, knowing her as well as he does, and given that he's just as intimately acquainted with her mind as he is with her body, he can sense that there is an underlying edge still simmering behind the carefully constructed façade. It's an edge that piques his interest and makes the promise of later all the more enticing, for despite the untimely interruption – and the subsequent realisation that maybe not the place but certainly the time could have been better – there will be a later.

As the three of them gather the last of their things and prepare to file out of the door he smiles and offers a polite, "Have a good day ladies."

Laura thanks him with a cheerful, sunny smile that holds only a quiet hint of her earlier laughter; she promises to return that evening with wine and take-out from the authentic little Indian place located only a handful of streets away. Eve is far less subtle, not even bothering to hide her smirk as she passes, leaving him with no doubt at all about what she thinks they were up to in the bedroom, and just how long she intends to remain amused about the entire early morning saga.

Oh well, he decides, if that's the case…

Grace is just about to step through the door when he catches her hand, quickly snaking an arm around her waist and tugging her flush against his body as he leans down to give her a kiss goodbye. It's not, by any stretch of the imagination, a quick goodbye brush of the lips. It's a kiss that is far hotter and deeper, far longer and more lingering than he would ever normally consider in such a public setting, given their company and the wide open front door. It's immature behaviour, and he knows it, but if Eve is already smirking then there's no reason for him not to give her something to really smirk about. Grace won't thank him for it, he knows all too well, but he's absolutely confident in his ability to deflect any fury she might direct his way later on.

"See you later," he murmurs, his voice layered with meaning and audible only to her ears, before he straightens, amused to see the curious mix of blazing heat and angry displeasure that for only the briefest of seconds is suddenly crystal clear in her eyes again before her mask settles firmly back in place. Then, with a quick squeeze of his fingers that is just a little too tight to be friendly, she slips out of his grasp and down the steps, joining the other two, both of whom have been surreptitiously watching, as they climb into Eve's car.

Deliberately nonchalant, he leans against the doorframe and waves them off, knowing full well how much his actions are grating on Grace's nerves, and enjoying every moment of it. Infuriating her is something he excels at and revels in, and in this instance he's gambling on it paying off spectacularly in his favour – after all, the other two will have to stay at the conference until late afternoon, but Grace will be back home shortly after lunch.


End file.
